Shadowed Dreamland
by LionessAmaya
Summary: For the 100 days, 100 drabbles challenge. Mostly DMGW. "And then it was him who woke up alone in the morning, with nothing but the faint lingering scent of her shampoo. That was new too."
1. New

**Shadowed Dreamland**

_i. new_

It wasn't the first time that he had played the game.

It was second nature to him, the slight smirks and enticing glances. It was always a half-truth built on a lie, and in the end they woke up alone. He had danced the routine many times before. It was the Gryffindor robes that made it different.

It was the vivid red hair and the challenge mixed with the invitation that made it interesting. It was the spirit, unhidden by masks of friendship or admiration, that made it _new. _

(And then it was him who woke up alone in the morning, with nothing but the faint lingering scent of her shampoo. That was new too.)


	2. Broken

**Shadowed Dreamland**

_ii. broken_

Narcissa, they called her, and her sisters have long thought that no name could have suited her better.

They would laugh, to see her now. She stands before the mirror, her eyes fixated on her reflection. The centuries of breeding sculpted her perfect face, her beautiful features. The careful diet she has followed since birth keeps her waist tiny, and a stray gene from her great grandmother gives her her beautiful blond hair.

Yet the small brown birthmark in the center of her chest is random, the sole imperfection to be found.

Her finger touches it gently. It feels no different then the rest of her skin, smooth and silky. But it should not exist.

She raises her wand and conceals it, returning her gaze to the mirror. She is perfect again, fourteen and more fair than even her mother and sisters.

But this century-old heirloom, it knows the secret.

It knows.

A single word, and the broken pieces fall to the floor before her feet in a cascade of glass.


	3. Hope

**Shadowed Dreamland**

_iii. hope_

He can no longer remember the day that the world fell into a broken mess of green light and blood, screaming children and broken bodies.

He supposes that it's been lost somewhere in the last year- or decade or century or however long it's been- and he's almost glad, because it makes it easier when he can't put a date on the day he lost it all. There's before, and there's after, and her face overshadows it all, eyes accusing.

And he prays every day that the hate never leaves her heart, because it's the single note of hope in his melody of sharps and clashing chords. She won't let herself die until she curses him for betraying her.

I'm sorry, he tries to whisper, but his mouth is no good for anything except Unforgivables.

But then, maybe the audacity of his apology is as unforgivable as Avada Kedavra.


	4. Quills

**Shadowed Dreamland**

_iv. quill_

It's amazing, the things a Malfoy can do with parchment, an owl, and a quill.

Lucius dips his into the pot of ink, and pauses.

Right now, he could stop Hugh Blackrose's pardon in its tracks, and condemn his family to starvation. He could, with a few choice words, have Millicent Bullstrode's parents decide to marry her off to Crabbe instead of Nott, or have a nobody official promoted to a minister of finance. He could have someone- almost anyone- rejected by those they'd grown up among, left friendless and without influence. He could provide funds for an orphanage or hospital or school of dark arts. He could cancel or plan an assassination. He could direct this letter to the Minister of Magic or a dealer of dark artifacts responsible for the deaths of dozens.

He puts quill to parchment, writes slowly and carefully.

_My dearest mother,_ he begins. _I hope this letter finds you in good health. I know how long it has been since we last took tea, and I was thinking that perhaps you might honour me with a visit this Wednesday evening..._


	5. Doorway

**Shadowed Dreamland**

_v. doorway_

Sirius' door is an entrance to another mindset.

When he wanders around the rest of the house, he is the invader, the odd one out. Inside his room, he belongs. Among the Gryffindor colours, he is at home.

On occasion, Regulus stands in the doorway and wishes he could be, too. He wants, with a desperation he didn't know he had, for family to matter more than blood. He wants to belong not necessarily in this room, covered in muggle posters and red and gold, but by his brothers side and in his heart. For him to look at him and see his own eyes and his own hair and his own face, and not turn away in shame.

His fantasy is lost, on a day of screaming and fury, in the blast of a wand and a burnt name.

He locks the door.


	6. Breathless

**Shadowed Dreamland**

_vi. breathess_

It swoops towards him and his identity flies away on wings of terror, his name and parents and likes and past and master fleeing his mind as the creature comes nearer. The despair emenates from it in jagged shards of bleak hopelessness that cut into his mind sharply, leaving him almost sobbing with a need to flee and a weakness that makes it impossible. He is reduced to a desperate child trembling on the floor, a child with a lifetime of sin and a heart that's buried too deep to be seen and left unprotected at the same time. He thrashes, begs for mercy with his eyes and forgets he doesn't deserve it, forgets the soul they're coming for has been bought and paid for twice over.

He loses the battle before it begins, or lost it long ago when he had forgotten the distinction between love and misery, life and existence, monster and man. Or maybe there are no winners, in this game, because there are but two combatants. He's a child who sees the world in black and white, but doesn't know either shade and can't tell the difference, and-

(And the dementors are just as empty as the dollhouse his mother had kept in her room, waiting for the daughter that was never born.)


	7. Pain

The following contains implications of **sex**, **masochism**, **BDSM** and is **bordering on M-rated**. If this offends you, then you have been **suitably warned.**

* * *

**Shadowed Dreamland**

_vii. pain_

It courses through her, blazes in her veins, forces its way to her lips and explodes in a scream of pure joy. She burns with life and arches into the irreplaceable sensation, begging for more with her eyes as her scream fades into a series of pants and moans as the exquisite sensation fades into a faint buzz. The wand above her lowers and she whimpers (_more, please, more, please don't stop, never stop_), knows that for once she's not in control. She doesn't know who is- the feeling or the man who can cause it- but she surrenders to them, begs with no dignity until finally the word is hissed again (_crucio_). It explodes through her again and she is helpless and writhing, wanting more and more, sure that it would kill her but it would be worth it.

It stops and she knows now that her body has had enough, because the world is spinning away and she resents this because _(no)_ so is the fire.

x

He moves forward along his path, all shadows and death, and she works tirelessly to stay by his side. She is rewarded when finally, he comes to her in the night with no promises save to bring her what she most needs. He doesn't know gentleness and she doesn't _(harder) _want it. There are no softer feelings in this, nothing except her desperate need for more of the drug that is her beating heart.

_(are you in much pain?)_

_(yes, master, thank you, master)_


	8. Test

**Shadowed Dreamland**

_viii. test_

It was a test, of that he was sure.

Surely she wouldn't consider him, son of a Death Eater. A Death Eater himself, even. This was to see if his soul was black enough to take advantage of a girl's weakness, to see if his professed newly found decency was a farce. This had nothing to do with want or need or the ache in his chest that he imagined was mirrored in her eyes. This was just a pop quiz, if you would. One that he could not afford to fail.

He turned his back to her, to her tear streaked face and the invitation in her outstretched hand. It was what they wanted, it was the correct answer. Of that he was sure.

"I can see that you're a coward even now, Malfoy." Her voice was hurt, but not broken. Raw with yet another let down, but not dead. His fantasy dissolved instantly. This had nothing to do with the Order.

He turned back for just a moment, knowing it to be foolishness.

"I- I wouldn't be good for you," he stuttered. It was a poor excuse, the words of a cur as he fled a beating.

Her mocking laughter chased him out the door, into the dark night.


	9. Drink

**Shadowed Dreamland**

_ix. drink_

If there was one person that Seamus was not expecting to see at the World Cup, it was the man standing in front of him.

Ten years. Ten years without an owl, a word, even a glimpse. Ten years since he had thought of calling Dean Thomas best friend. Ten years in which the world had changed, in which he had been loved and left, in which his daughter had been born and grown into a loveable, spoiled girl of seven. Ten years in which he had matured into an adult, put old memories behind him.

From the looks of things, the other had changed too. There were worry lines etched onto his face, a distressed edge in his eyes that had never been there before. His gaze was resigned as he set eyes on the blond clutching her father's hand, and he slowly looked up to stare directly at the man who had once been a boy beside him.

"How've you been?"

It was awkward, certainly. Not a reconciliation, just a chance meeting that both would have rather avoided.

"Well. I actually did the banners this year, and it paid decently," the other replied, gesturing at the elaborate moving posters around the stadium. "Ireland vs. England", one read, showing two lightning fast figures racing each other, reaching for a snitch that remained just out of grasp. It brought back memories of cheers, for Gryffindor and for a boy with a scar. "And you?"

"Quite good. Me and Parvati are planning to wed in the springtime- you remember her?" he asked.

"Of course! She's a lovely woman. Congratulations." He squeezed his daughter's hand absently, hoping that she wouldn't respond to the name.

"Auntie Parvati?"

Seamus' eyes widened slightly and he looked at Dean's ring finger, seeing the white circle of skin where his wedding ring had sat.

"Me and Padma divorced six months ago," he explained shortly.

"I'm sorry to hear that."

There was an awkward silence, before Dean glanced at his watch.

"Well, the game will be starting soon. We should be getting to our seats," he murmured.

"Yes, of course," the other agreed. "Goodbye then," he added with a nod. He began to walk away.

"Wait!" Dean cried involuntarily. "Would you like to grab a drink sometime tomorrow?"

The man he didn't know smiled a smile he knew better than his daughter's face.

"I'd like that."


	10. Anger

**Shadowed Dreamland**

_x. anger_

He said, his voice shaking, that he wanted to be free.

I looked at him and shook my head. I mocked him and I cried for him, but mostly I denied him. He ran towards me, but time after time I pushed him away.

He wasn't the first to long for me and would certainly not be the last. He was a slave to his own anger, his own helplessness. He was a trophy, a figurine on a mantelpiece, and he didn't know how to handle it other then to embrace me. He wanted freedom to err, to live.

I knew what he didn't, that he would fall into my grasp soon enough and that he wouldn't welcome the time when it came. I knew that he had threads of responsibility and love and hate that kept him in the world of the living, knew that if those threads ever snapped he would tumble headfirst into the abyss that he thought he needed.

He would scream, as he fell. He might even think it unfair.


	11. Dreams

**Shadowed Dreamland**

_xi. dreams_

She's living in a dream.

She's not naive enough that she doesn't know it, doesn't see the way it's worn around the edges. She isn't an idiot, knows that sometime soon, she'll be rudely shaken awake.

But for now, she can pretend that he leaves to go to a boring desk job at the Ministry. She can pretend that as she cuts up vegetables for dinner, he isn't in mortal peril. She can hold fast to her illusion, that she's an innocent girl with hope intact and he's just an ordinary boy, not a hero. She can imagine that they can afford to be nineteen and madly in love, blind to everything else.

She knows better, knows that it's better to wake up to terror then to wake up to a flash of green light.

"I'm home!" he calls.

"Draco!" she exclaims, false cheer in her voice. "Dinner will be ready in a few minutes."

"Smells amazing," he answered.

Maybe dreams would kill them.

Reality would do the job much faster.


	12. Puzzle

I probably won't reply to any reviews- sorry, but I'm behind, and I'd rather write more. =] Know that I appreciate it!

* * *

**Shadowed Dreamland**

_xii. puzzle_

When he was little, Sirius was given a puzzle.

It was beautiful. The hundred pieces fit together to make a wolf that howled at the moon and ran smoothly up and down the snowy cliff that made up the background. It was a gift for his seventh birthday, and he began to put it together right away, admiring the way the pieces fit together.

After ten days, he was almost half finished. The dark sky was there, the glowing moon, the wolf's head. Sirius had just found a place for another piece when his mother entered his room. Years later, he couldn't even remember the cause of her rage. His recollection was made up of one scene- the puzzle being torn apart, everything that had been together lying in a scattered heap on the floor.

When she left, he touched the rapidly forming bruise on his cheek and began again.

It was a full month before he placed his last piece, a part of the wolf's paw. He looked forlornly at the empty spot where a pure white piece should have been. Ninety nine parts, fit together neatly. But the image would never move.

Several rooms away, a five year old contemplated a treasure found in the hallway. His nursemaid, worried he would choke, put it out of reach on top the small boy's dresser, ignoring his indignant protests.

Years later, he clung to it as he watched a name burn.


	13. Discrepant

This is poetry rather than a drabble, but I hope it's acceptable. All grammar mistakes are deliberate.

* * *

**Shadowed Dreamland**

_xiii. discrepant_

war brought us together

odd, isn't it?

war and love

seems... discrepant

but I could never have

loved you as hard

if death hadn't been

lurking around the corner

I never would have

given this a chance

if I hadn't known

that it would end in

disaster no matter what

war and love

guns 'n' roses

but then, you wouldn't

know anything about

muggle music

you might have liked them

I wish I had had time

to show you everything

that you were missing

tucked away in a mansion

secure in your own

superiority

but it was war

and it was love

and there's never

enough minutes

in an hour

so I just thought I'd say

I'm sorry.


	14. Holiday

**Shadowed Dreamland**

_xiv. holiday_

Ginny made her way through the crowd of half-drunk purebloods, keeping her eyes up against orders. There was nothing respectful about her, nothing submissive despite the black collar around her neck. She was a slave, certainly, as far as society was considered. But she was no shadow of a woman who cringed under her master's blows, offered him her body in exchange for a more comfortable life. She was a Gryffindor, after all, even if the house no longer existed.

She balanced her tray on one hand, men and women in their best dress robes grabbing drinks and sweetmeats from the platter. Her eyes were fixed on the fountain, elaborately sculpted into the shape of a rearing unicorn. It wasn't the beautiful architecture that caught her eye but the figures standing beside it.

As she slowly worked her way closer to her one-time classmates, another caught her eye. Malfoy- she stubbornly refused to think of him as Master- was every inch the host, socializing with all his guests. Everyone knew that the Malfoys threw the only parties worth mentioning. There were roughly five hundred people here, trampling around the beautiful garden. White snow illuminated by festive green and red lights, it was the perfect Christmas atmosphere.

She reached her destination with little difficulty, holding out her tray and waiting for the men to take glasses of firewhisky before she dared a quiet whisper.

"Neveille, Seamus, Ernie," she murmured.

They looked at her, eyes widening slightly.

"Ginny?" Neveille asked. "I thought you were..."

It was unnecessary to finish the statement.

"No, I'm... living with Malfoy," she said, knowing they would gather the story from her collar. The trio looked at her with pity in their eyes.

"What about the rest of your-" Seamus began.

"Wasting time socializing, slave?" The sharp voice came from right behind her. She jumped almost a foot, turning around with a hint of defiance in her expression.

"Master," Ginny acknowledged reluctantly. "My apologies."

He looked at her for a moment, something like empathy in his eyes.

"No, take a moment. It is a holiday, after all."

She looked at her, bitter at the gratitude that filled her. Bitterness because to be thankful for something so mundane made her more a slave. Bitterness because a small kindness battered her spirit more than a cold-hearted cruelty.

"Thank you, master."


	15. Mirror

**Shadowed Dreamland**

_xv. mirror_

Narcissa knows that Bellatrix had him first, and she knows that Bellatrix has had him since. But it doesn't matter, because her sister doesn't wear his ring.

She's fifteen and wiser than to fancy herself in love. She knows better than any that this is little more than a dance, with complicated footing and the ever-present chance of falling into disgrace. She knows that her betrothal was only a politcal move, that her fiancé cares little for her. But even as she reminds herself sternly of such things, she can't help but allow a small smile to slip onto her face. It's the first time she's known victory without blood.

She looks at herself in the mirror and imagines her sister's face. Bellatrix, who knows manipulation and status and a million things. Bellatrix, who seduces but can't attract affection. Bellatrix, who is all dazzling brashness and tantalizing lines, cruel and beautiful, but not pretty. It's a small thing, to be pretty, but it's something that Narcissa has for herself, and something that Lucius sees.

She smirks at her sister for the first time.

Years later, he vanishes with the last of the guests on their wedding night. She knows where to find him, knows Bellatrix's home intimately, but she doesn't go to confront them. She's already won, after all.

Her reflection smiles at her, alone in her beautiful white dress. She knows that for all Bellatrix is caressing her husband, this round is hers. She has never felt more powerful. She unzips the dress in the back, watches it crumple to the floor. Another glance at the young woman in the mirror tells her that she is irresistable at this moment, even if there's no one to prove it.

She spends the night there, admiring her own beauty, and tells herself that she doesn't know the meaning of 'lonely'.

* * *

I am not particularly pleased with the batch of drabbles. Reviews will be replied to eventually this time around. Deadline's tomorrow. I'm done up to twenty two. Honestly, it's more than I thought I'd finish. :D


	16. Seeking Peace

**Shadowed Dreamland**

_xvi. seeking peace_

The words are still swirling around him, suffocating him, blinding him. Thick black smoke screaming of obligations and blood and a million little things he can't shrug off, because they follow him everywhere. He's choking on it, choking on the hate that is his birthright.

He's running from the house with little thought, wanting nothing except to be able to breathe. He's into the forest before rational thought catches up to him, whispering of dark creatures and cold nights. He can't hear over her screaming, though.

_"-no son of mine-"_

He just wants her to shut up. His hands are clapped over his ears and he's repressing the urge to scream in an effort to drown out her voice. He seeks peace in the depths of his mind, but she's there too, and he whimpers quietly in what would be defeat if he could afford it. He can't feel the snow around his bare feet, can't see the sun slowly setting, can't hear anything except-

_"-traditions older than you can imagine-"_

_"-good for nothing-"_

_A slap._

He puts a cautious hand to his cheek, feels the dried blood, remembers the feel of her ring cutting into his flesh. The words dissipate and leave the eleven year old gasping for breath, reaching into his robes for the only Christmas present he had received the day before. He looked at his reflection without energy even to wince at his haunted appearance.

"James Potter," he breathed raggedly.

He watched with fascination as he disappeared and someone from another world appeared. James' eyes were sparkling with happiness and holiday cheer, until he saw how dead his friend's were.

"Sirius?" he questioned, but there was no reply. The glass had gone white- no, not really _white._ Subtly different.

The colour of snow.

The colour of peace.


	17. Questioning

**Shadowed Dreamland**

_xvii. questioning_

"Why?"

Peter is curled into a corner, his eyes wide and fearful. All he can see of his interrogator is a dark silhouette against the open window. He thinks perhaps it's Sirius- but no, Sirius wouldn't waste his time. He would be on him the moment he saw him, with curses and fists and the contempt he reserved for traitors. Remus, maybe, would stop and ask, but the voice isn't quite right. Remus' tone would be calm; deadly, not accusing. James would have killed him without a thought and turned away from his corpse with a sneer, because he was the most innocent of all of them. To James, everything was black and white; our side and their side.

"Why?"

He doesn't know what to say. The voice is less furious now, and more questioning. Pleading, almost. He knows who it is.

"I... I didn't see the choice," he whispers brokenly.

The fourth Marauder places his hand around his throat and he thinks that maybe, just maybe, this is mercy.


	18. Red

**Shadowed Dreamland**

_xviii. red_

ome nights, all that he can remember is the **r e d r e d r e d** and _stop stop please stop _of the little girl and her high, tinkling laughter.

That's what death is to him- blood and desperate screaming and her. He wonders how he could have ever thought of her as the white to his black, the innocence to his corruption. Such simplicity is the trademark of a child, but even with more wisdom, he couldn't have seen her as this monster.

She comes for him in the dead of night, as he knew she would eventually. He tastes death, now, in the metallic fear that floods his mouth.

She's laughing. He trembles.

_Stop stop please stop_. She smiles.

And her hair is as **r e d** as his blood.


	19. Happiness

**Shadowed Dreamland**

_xix. happiness_

He knows that there is no such thing as happiness. It's a concept dreamed up by those who enjoy straining for unreachable goals, romantics with no grasp on reality. He isn't a fool. He understands that sometimes you just have to... settle for less; realize that good enough comes before perfect because good enough is obtainable. It's simple prioritizing, basic logic. If you can't have it, don't waste time on it.

He repeats this all to himself, wraps an arm around _good enough _and tries to settle. She leans into his embrace, basks in it. She, too, recognizes that happiness is a myth and she will settle for power.

_Perfect_ pays them no attention.


	20. Family

**Shadowed Dreamland**

_xx. family_

"Leave me be!" she screams. She doesn't sound as in control as she would like. She wants to command him, to force him to listen to her. Instead, the panic flows into her voice and gives it a frantic edge, a desperation she would rather not show. "Go!"

He just looks at her, eyes black and empty. She shudders with revulsion, and then self-hatred. _He's only fifteen..._

He moves as if responding to her thought, extending his arms towards her. A smile lights his beautiful face, and she has never seen something so unabashedly _wrong. _She presses her back further into the wall and can't stop herself from glancing frantically side to side, trying to find an out. She knows what she looks like. She knows what she undoubtedly _is_- cornered prey.

"Listen to me, Draco!"

He moves closer and embraces her. She stiffens beneath his touch. _Oh my god, he's so cold, he's so cold, he's too cold too cold. _This isn't Draco.

"What are you?" she shrieks.

He laughs lightly, showing gleaming white fangs, and she flinches at the cruel beauty of it.

"I'm family, dearest."

He sinks his teeth into her neck.


	21. Divorce

**Shadowed Dreamland**

_xxi. divorce_

"Just sign them."

He refuses to take the papers she holds out, won't even look at them.

"Unbelievable," he spits. "You're giving up?"

She looks at him silently, wondering when they had fallen so far. She wants to tell him many things, but she can see his past whispering in his ear, telling him that to end a marriage is shameful. She knows that purebloods don't believe in divorce.

"Just sign them," she repeats. "Please, Draco."

He sneers at her, snatching the papers and throwing them aside.

"Don't do this." He says it quietly, a command and a plea. He will never allow himself to fail at something, marriage in particular. He can't- the ability has been trained out of him. She turns and begins to walk away, but makes it only a few steps.

The house-elves burry her while he reports her missing. He feels empty, but the sensation isn't new.

Purebloods don't believe in divorce.


	22. Flying

**Shadowed Dreamland**

_xxii. flying_

For a moment, he thinks wildly that words should be outlawed.

They're too dangerous, too hard, and too _motherfucking _brutal. Purebloods play with them all the time, and he's been raised to manipulate them, but he doesn't know how to twist this. He never thought he would be this easily undone. Words should not rip into someone as if their defenses are non-existant. Nothing should be able to do that. Mere syllables should not reduce him to this wide-eyed, speechless, stammering mess.

But then, if he's honest, his state has nothing to do with words- it's more the sentiment behind them. Or perhaps the person behind the sentiment.

Three brutal, hard, dangerous words spoken by a woman who doesn't seem to care what they'll do to him.

He doesn't know whether he's flying or falling.


End file.
